


some kind of resolution

by tosca1390



Category: Soul Eater
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-21
Updated: 2012-05-21
Packaged: 2017-11-05 19:01:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/409942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tosca1390/pseuds/tosca1390
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"It’s more for motivation than anything else." </i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	some kind of resolution

*

It’s a joke, a gag gift. 

She does the cooking, and he does the cleaning – that’s how they have to survive, because his cooking is a mess and she can’t deal with dishes and mopping. It’s a domesticity she can be comfortable with – her father was nothing if not absent, and her mother – her mother was never one for household moments. So this is a system that works for her. 

Except when Soul’s a little lazy, which happens. They have classes and papers and extracurricular missions and there’s always _something_ with her dad dropping by and trying to be a part of her life. But she always has dinner ready, even when sifting through all of the rest, even if it’s just ordering out. It’s polite, after all. Soul, however, takes his sweet time with the sweeping and the dishes when he’s a little overtired, or whatever. And sometimes, she just can’t take it. 

So, she picks it up at a tiny little costume shop in town and lays it out on his bed, grinning a little cheekily. He’s out with Black Star and Kid and Crona and some of the other younger students, playing a round of basketball, or whatever. Of course he left the house a mess before he left, so it was all the motivation she needed to bite the bullet and get it. 

“Oooh,” Blair coos from the doorway, tail swiping lazily back and forth. “I had one of those once.”

“Bet you did,” Maka murmurs, resting her hands on her hips. 

“It won’t look very good on Soul, you know.”

“Well, it’s more for motivation than anything else,” Maka says, making a face at the tiny black cat. 

Blair wrinkles her nose, whiskers twitching. “I’ll be out of the house tonight anyway.”

A flush spots Maka’s cheeks. “You don’t have to do that!” she exclaims, smoothing her hands down her skirt. “There’s no need.”

The little hat between her ears tips to the left as Blair giggles. “Oh, please. I know you two.”

Maka decides there will be no more catnip for Blair, as she watches the cat turn and walk out of the doorway. 

*

He comes home after dark, sweaty and breathless. 

She sits curled on the couch, a book in one hand and a plate of pasta at her side. The sun has set, and she sits in near darkness, engrossed by the book and by the gift waiting in Soul’s room. Blair, after a whole afternoon of teasing and double entendres and general comments on her and Soul, has left for the evening. Maka doesn’t particularly know what Blair does when she goes out at night, and she doesn’t really want to; she’s out of their way, and that’s all she needs. 

“Hey. Quit reading in the dark,” Soul says, flipping on the light next to her. 

She hums, turning a page in her book. “I was fine.”

“You’re going to go blind one day,” he retorts, his hand sliding over her shoulder to her throat. His fingers are still warm, slightly damp with sweat. 

“There’s pasta out there for you,” she says. 

His fingers tuck under her chin, tipping her head up. “Hey, thanks,” he says, ducking down to kiss her. 

She blushes, and turns back to her book as he moves away, whistling a little. It’s that same odd tune she remembers from so long ago, the first time she heard him play. He hums it sometimes; it’s an absent habit, once he doesn’t notice. She likes it, especially at night, when it’s just his hand at her waist and his mouth near her ear. 

Then, he drops his bag in the middle of the floor, the same place he had left his school satchel, and his sneakers from earlier. She watches over the top of her book, mouth pursed. 

“Just tomato sauce?” he calls to her from the kitchen. 

She curls her fingers hard into the book cover. “Yeah. Just tomato sauce,” she drawls, shaking her head. 

He grunts a little. She can hear the clatter of cutlery against his plate. “Getting lazy, Maka.”

 _Oh, you’re one to talk_ , she thinks as he strolls past her once again towards his room. Sometimes he eats in his room – he blames it on the books; she thinks he doesn’t like it when she watches him eat. He’s messy sometimes, and she can’t help but comment. It’s what they do. 

Smiling a little, she turns another page in her book, and waits. 

There’s short little huff of sound, and then the clatter of a plate on the floor. 

“Hey!” she shouts at him. “Don’t make a mess!”

He storms out a moment later, face red and the outfit clutched in his fist. Tomato sauce spots his t-shirt. 

“What the hell is this, Maka?” 

She looks at him, smiling slightly. “Do you like it?”

He waves it in front of her. The skirt is dark red, like blood; lace catches and scrapes at the air. It’s soft and short and comes with a lacy apron, and it’s too funny for her not to have purchased. “What the _hell_ is this?” he grits out. 

Sighing, she sets her book aside. “Well, I thought it might spur you along.”

“Into doing _what_?”

His mouth is twitching, eyes wide. She likes getting this much of a reaction out of him. It’s rare enough, now. They are measured and patient and restrained with each other, the power they share – sometimes, it’s nice to see him a little wild, off-kilter. _So not cool_ , she thinks with a smile. 

“Doing your share,” she says, sitting up on her knees. 

Soul’s mouth opens and closes for a moment. She rests her weight on her hands on the arm of the couch, tilting her head. Her hair slide at her cheeks, her throat. She keeps it loose when it’s just the two of them around the house – he likes it. 

“You’ve been a little slow on the household chores. I live here too, you know, and I don’t want to live in a pigsty,” she says flatly. 

He waves the outfit in front of her face again. “Who is supposed to wear this, though?”

Her lips twitch into a smile. “Why? Did you want to wear it?”

Color spots his cheeks. “ _Maka_ ,” he says, nearly a growl. It unfurls something low in her belly. 

“Just do your share, Soul. That’s all I ask,” she says primly. 

His fingers clench around the fabric of the skirt. “Hold onto this,” he says shortly, tossing her the skirt and then turning on his heel. “I want you in it in thirty minutes!”

“Your attention to detail is staggering!” she hollers at him as he starts picking up his stray shirts and bags and books from the floor. 

_Worked like a charm_ , she thinks with a smile, her fingertips soft against the fabric. 

*

An hour later, she thinks he may have forgotten about her. 

The lace scratches at her thighs, but the skirt is longer than her school uniform’s skirt, so she’s comfortable. She lays back on his bed, book propped on her stomach. She can hear him in the hall, in the kitchen; there’s the whistling again, the low sounds easy on her ears. His leather jacket hangs from the back of his door. 

Once she has been sure he was following through and actually doing his share of the chores at last, she had quietly retreated into his room and slipped on the outfit. It’s been a wait thus far – he seems intent on being thorough, which is nice. But now she’s impatient, can taste it on her tongue. 

_There might be something to outfits like this after all_ , she thinks, turning another page in her book. 

His bedroom door flies open. She glances over. Soul kicks the door shut as he moves into the room, flushed. 

“You’re _reading_?” he asks after a moment, his eyes hot on her. 

She bites her lip and sits up. The lace rustles with the movement. “I got bored,” she says pointedly. 

He kicks off his shoes and stalks over to her. His gaze is very dark. “The house is spotless.”

“Okay,” she says, amused. 

It takes nothing for him to slide his hands, warm and wide and still slightly damp from dishwater, over her knees and thighs. He kneels at the end of the bed and drags her down the length of the bed. Her thighs part as her legs drop to either side of his shoulders. 

“You’re absolutely crazy. Did you know that?” he asks as his mouth drags along the curve of her knee. The hem of the skirt brushes his hair, dull in the soft light of the room. 

She wets her lips and sets the book aside. “What makes you say that?”

He bites at the inside of her thigh, his fingers sliding up and up towards the edges of her panties. “You could have just _asked_ me to clean.”

“I _did_ , you idiot!” she retorts, laying back on the bed. 

“Ah. Well, yeah,” he murmurs, and she can feel the smile against her skin. His head ducks under the lacy skirt as his fingers slide under her panties and between her thighs. “Still, teasing me like this? Not cool.”

“I’m starting to think you are the least cool person in the world,” she mutters. Heat pricks at her fingertips and her skin as she tilts her head back against the bed. Her hair catches at her throat, her cheeks. 

He laughs against her skin. “Don’t lie, Maka. I can tell, you know.” 

His tongue is soft and warm against the thin skin of her thigh. Two fingers slide into her, slick and hot. She moans, tucking her fingers into the loose apron strings to keep them occupied. His thumb edges along her clit as his teeth shift and graze at her hip. The room warms, the energy thickening the air. Color flushes at her throat, her jaw. She can smell the lingering sweat and soap on his skin, as she stutters through each breath with his tongue curling closer and his fingers curving. Her legs slide and shift over his shoulders, pressing him in. 

He laughs. “I can take a hint,” he says, voice muffled by skin and fabric. 

Slowly, slowly, he slides her panties over her hips and thighs. They get trapped and stretched at the tops of her knees, but she doesn’t care as his mouth slides in, his tongue easy on her clit.

“ _Oh_ ,” she moans, fingers tangling in her skirt. 

He’s sighing, or murmuring, or fuck, he could be whistling against her – she doesn’t know. But it feels good, feels like letting go, like Witch Hunter in her hands. He’s possessive with the bite of his fingers into her thighs and the slide of his tongue against her, slick and heavy. Her heel presses against his ribs as she trembles under him. 

His tongue presses in against her clit, two fingers still curved inside of her. She gasps through her teeth, slamming her hands against the blankets. The collar of the blouse sticks at her collarbones, throat – she presses her hips to his mouth and sighs as she comes, his name a slow low drag from her lips. She shuts her eyes and presses her cheek against the blankets, breaths stuttering through her.

He takes his time with her, mouthing along her trembling thigh as he pulls her panties down and off her ankles, and then rises. She opens her eyes, a flush high on her cheek. She can see his mouth, damp in the soft warm light. 

Then, he licks his lips and she groans. “You’re awful,” she murmurs, still short of breath. 

He grins and crawls over her, stripping the sweaty and soap-marked t-shirt off of him. Her eyes, as they always do, catch on the long swipe of a scar across his chest. “Maybe we should switch household duties,” he says as he sits astride her, his hands falling to her waist. 

“That is a bad idea,” she says shortly, letting him take her hands in his and pin them over her head. Their fingers lace, catching in her loose hair. “You will always burn dinner.”

“Yeah. But you’d get to clean in this little thing,” he drawls, leaning over. 

She tips her head back, catching his mouth with hers. She can taste the lingering of dinner, and of her on his lips. “I’m not cleaning for you in this.”

“Not cool,” he teases. 

Rolling her eyes, she leans up and kisses him. His tongue presses against the seam of her lips. She sighs and nudges at him with her knees, sending him tumbling onto his back, with her spread out and warm over him. 

Looking up at her, he smiles, warm and slow. Their hands remain laced, interlocked, as always.

*

Later, he brings her ice cream after she puts away the maid outfit in a safe, secret place in her room. His t-shirt lays flush against her thighs as she sits up in his bed once more, reading. 

“I’ve got to teach you something about sports,” he mutters as he pushes the cool icy bowl into her lap. 

She hums, and shrugs. “No thank you,” she murmurs, tucking the book between her fingers as she reaches for the spoon. 

There is the distinct sound of the bell over the kitty door, from the front room; Blair meows as she pads down the hall. He snorts and slides his arm across her shoulders as he settles next to her. It’s instinct to tuck into his side, shifting her leg over his. 

“You’re nuts,” he says. His hand lands on her thigh. After a moment, she can feel his fingers dragging along her skin, a familiar rhythm and tune.

 

Maka smiles around a spoonful of chocolate ice cream, and turns back to her book. 

*


End file.
